Respect the Journey, Enjoy the Destination
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale has scars that Crowley deeply regrets. But Crowley has one that Aziraphale regrets, too. It takes 6000 years for two enemies turned lovers - and now fiances - to come to terms with them. Aziraphale x Crowley - A Prince of Omens AU


_**Notes: ****This is the second of two presents I wrote for the amazing WhiteleyFoster as a thank you for their Prince of Omens series. I held on to it till now because it makes a reference revealed in today's update and I didn't want to give anything away. This takes place after the previous epilogue I wrote - When an End is Really a Beginning - that takes place after the events of the Good Omens mini-series, but includes the Prince of Omens version of the characters and references to their time in Egypt.**_

"Is this all right, angel?" Crowley asks, fingertips dancing down Aziraphale's sides, circling around to his back.

"Yes …" Aziraphale sighs, arching up to receive the touch, but also moving closer, stretching his neck to give Crowley more skin to kiss. "Yes, it's all right. It's _more _than all right."

Crowley shivers at Aziraphale's praise, and Aziraphale adores it. Adores how much a few kind and honest words turn Crowley on. In Aziraphale's eyes, it's the purest form of foreplay. But something deeper dwells beneath his trembling. Something _more._ Crowley is always the tiniest bit nervous, Aziraphale notices, when they start to make love. Before the Apoca-didn't, he assumed it was out of fear of getting caught.

Maybe it still is, even though there's no need.

Old habits die hard after all.

Aziraphale doesn't mention it. He doesn't want to make Crowley self-conscious in any way. But Aziraphale can't help being curious.

They've made love hundreds of times. They've both taken the lead. This time will prove to be just as miraculous as every other. If Crowley _isn't_ afraid of getting caught, why the nerves?

Aziraphale may never know.

Regardless, Aziraphale finds it endearing.

"What do you want, angel?" Crowley whispers, and fire shoots straight from those kisses to Aziraphale's toes.

"I want_ you, _my dear_._"

Crowley grins against Aziraphale's neck. "You always say that."

"Well, it's all I want."

"How do you want me?"

Aziraphale kisses Crowley's bicep, eyes flicking coyly up to meet his. "You choose. Surprise me."

"All right." Crowley swallows hard, chews his lower lip. Thoughts Aziraphale can't decipher swim through the liquid amber of Crowley's eyes, whose serpent gold has bled into the white, filling them from rim to rim with lust. But the furrow of his brow battles against the passion of his eyes.

Aziraphale wishes he'd tell him what's on his mind.

Crowley puts a hand to Aziraphale's shoulder, starts turning him over. "Like this … i-if you don't mind."

"I don't. I love you this way, too," Aziraphale reassures him, trying to iron-out the wrinkles in Crowley's confidence. Crowley helps Aziraphale onto his stomach. The moment he's there, Crowley kisses him again, lips blazing a trail down the angel's spine, moving over his skin with murmurs Aziraphale can feel but can't hear.

But the longer those murmurs continue, the clearer they become.

Aziraphale concentrates on them, the bittersweet way they tingle, until he can determine what they are.

Apologies.

_"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, angel. I'm so sorry …"_

_"_Sorry for what, Crowley_?" _Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder. He sees his demon but can't catch his eyes - his head bowed, chin pressed to his neck as he retreats.

"Sorry for what, love?" Aziraphale asks again.

Crowley doesn't answer. He sits back on his heels, gulps a few times, but he doesn't speak.

A second later, Aziraphale feels a tear fall onto his skin.

"My dear!" Aziraphale flips over and takes Crowley's hands in his. "What in the world is wrong!?"

"You kept them," Crowley says, almost to himself. It's not a revelation. Crowley knew they were there. "To remind you never to trust a demon. Never to trust _me_."

They're scars - horrid, angry whip marks littering Aziraphale's back, made in Egypt when Aziraphale was mistaken for a lazy slave. Scars from a punishment Aziraphale wouldn't have had to endure if not for Crowley's conceit.

His ignorance.

His _cowardice_.

And when he thinks about the morning after, the horrible things he said in an attempt to push Aziraphale away, get him to leave Egypt and go somewhere he'd be safe …

… in his head, he's discorporated himself for it, over and over, in the vilest of ways.

"It's … it's not that simple." Aziraphale pleads, needing Crowley to understand as he realizes _this _is where those nervous tremors stem from.

Crowley seeing these marks.

Being reminded.

The torture it brings.

"It's what I think every time I look at them."

"I didn't keep them to hurt you. And I don't wear them as armor against you," Aziraphale explains. "Scars are simply a road. They're a part of our story. They tell us where we've been, remind us of something important."

"And what's that?" Crowley sniffs.

"That we're stronger than the things that try to break us. Back in Egypt, so many things tried to do that, tried to keep us apart. But in the end, here we are - you and I." Aziraphale puts his left hand over Crowley's, his serpent ring resting over Crowley's angel one. "Together. And for the rest of our lives."

Crowley nods. His eyelids flutter closed. He takes a deep breath in, digests those words. A tear slips down his cheek. Aziraphale follows the path of that tear as it rolls. It lingers on his jawbone, then breaks free, landing on his chest and continuing from there. Another follows, merges with the first, pushes it along. It skirts his flank and settles on his stomach, absorbing into his skin. That journey draws Aziraphale's gaze to Crowley's side and the faint, silvery remains of a fiery gash. Aziraphale reaches for it, fingertips hovering over, tracing its outline in the air.

"This scar," he says. "You chose to keep it. Why?"

Crowley shrugs. Without opening his eyes, he puts a hand over Aziraphale's and holds it tight, presses it to the spectre of the wound. "I wanted a souvenir from being struck by a holy sword. Doesn't happen every day, you know. I thought it would look cool. Maybe give me clout down in Hell." He chuckles lightly. "It sure made Hastur jealous as all get out."

"_I_ did this to you," Aziraphale says sadly.

Crowley's eyes snap open. "No, you didn't," he says to the regret on Aziraphale's face. "_Pharaoh_ did."

"With _my_ sword. The one I lost track of. You said so yourself."

"Angel …" Crowley shakes his head "… you can't blame yourself for this."

"He couldn't have touched you without it. Doesn't it stand to reason that if I hadn't given it away he'd never have been able to hurt you?"

"He … he could have found a way," Crowley says lamely. "Besides, you had good reasons for giving it away."

"He could have destroyed you! Which means _I_ would have destroyed you!" Aziraphale cries, a rage born of grief hardening his voice, and Crowley discovers a truth he'd never considered.

Aziraphale has never forgiven himself for this, even though there's nothing to forgive.

"You _saved_ me! In a thousand ways, you saved me!"

Aziraphale's watery gaze meets Crowley's concerned one. "I know what you did to the man who beat me. What you sentenced him to."

Crowley's eyes go wide - wider than Aziraphale has ever seen. "What? H-how?"

"The Archangels. They keep tabs on the prisoners in the bottomless pit. I read their report."

"O-oh," Crowley says, mildly ashamed, but only that Aziraphale didn't hear the news from him directly. He didn't tell him at the time because he didn't want to sound like he was bragging. Of course, he didn't want Aziraphale to try and stop him, either. "I forgot about that."

"He'll suffer far more than Pharaoh."

"Pharaoh burns in the fires of eternal torment. You know that."

"I know. But sometimes I think …" Aziraphale's voice cracks, splinters away. When it returns, it's sad and low and terrifying all at once "… _it's not enough_."

"F-for what he did to the slaves?"

"And you. He threatened you. Took you prisoner." Aziraphale raises a hand, cards it through Crowley's hair, winds the cool strands around his fingers and gives them a possessive squeeze. "He … he cut your hair," Aziraphale stutters, on the verge of tears. "I wasn't there, but when I close my eyes, I can see it. I see him wrapping his hand around it, pulling it … I see the tears in your eyes, the look on your face - the humiliation, the pain, the fear. And I see him inflicting all of it with _my_ sword! I can't exact revenge the way you can. But sometimes I wish …"

"No, you don't! Aziraphale?" Crowley leans forward, takes Aziraphale's face in his hands, rests their foreheads together. "No, you don't! You're an _angel!_"

Aziraphale sniffles. "Perhaps I'm not a very _good _angel."

"You're the best angel I know." Crowley kisses Aziraphale's tears when they start to fall. "That's why I want to spend forever with you."

Aziraphale sighs, the sadness in that single breath enough to crush Crowley. Had he only known! Had he a single clue! Maybe he could have relieved Aziraphale of his agony a long time ago. But Aziraphale is a master at keeping his cards close to his chest.

They both are.

"Forever is a long time, my dear," Aziraphale says.

"I know." Crowley rushes forward and kisses his angel on the mouth, revels in kissing his angel, glories in the fact that he's the only one who can. "And thank God for that."


End file.
